wasting my younger years
by lydiamartins
Summary: She's something of legend, really. -— The Next Generation.
1. i can make you love me

**characters: **victoire, teddy, lily luna, hugo  
**word count: **1,331

_wasting my younger years_  
part i. teddyvictoire

.

_you love like you've always been lonely,_  
_and that's alright honey, that's alright with me._  
—bones, ben howard

.

She's something of legend, really—Victoire Weasley, age of seventeen, ethereal blonde hair and ivory pale skin that is as long-lasting as pristine parchment. She strides through the hallways of Hogwarts, little Lily Luna Potter, trailing behind her—protege, next in line, they call her—a smirk engraved onto her face, her eyes always blank and judgmental.

.

"The boys here are easy," she says, almost complaining; her voice is always monotone, never flickering with emotion. Victoire Weasley does not show emotion; that's just not who she is, and there are far better things to do in life than to pretend to be someone you're not. "I want a challenge, Lily—somebody who's not as easy as these boys are. I want men."

Lily Luna looks up at her with wide green eyes, brightbright red hair dangling in curls. "What do you mean, men? Like the teachers? Because if that's what you want, then I think you've lost your mind, Tory."

She almost flinches at the nickname, but hides it well. "Not those sort of men—boys who want a challenge; boys like me."

"You're one-of-a-kind; there's nobody like you. You just have to settle for less, I guess; Dominique's always on about how girls are so much better than boys, which is why we're with them—for a relationship to work, one person has to be better than the other, right?" Her eyes are bright and filled with hope, nothing of experience and age, repeating the words she is told like a little songbird from the mountains.

There's a clamor in the hallway—Victoire and Lily Luna stand up slowly, and peer through the stained-glass windows. "New boys," Victoire murmurs, her voice plain. "How wonderful."

.

She plays with Hugo for a while—

It's all lust; lust or love, that is the question to be asked. Her parents, prettyperfect parents, ask her how she's doing in her classes, what profession she would desire—love is not something that think her capable of, and she slowly molds into their image of her.

They're fourth cousins, once removed, but after a while it's a little difficult to keep track of the gnarled family tree; the marks are still inked in the home—there are large stains of X's over traitors and the neatly painted script of 'deceased' that replicates itself more often than not.

The Weasley's with the fire burning through their veins, lions' heart resting in a hollow cave, are all but extinct—they are a dying race, wasting like pastries. Her mother tells her of when the Weasley boys thrived; they are all but dead now. Survivors, that is what they are called; that is all they are, survivors through whatever means necessary.

.

And then there's Teddy—he's the last of the lot, her last choice—

("He's a nice boy; you'd liked him," Lily Luna had told her. Victoire had promised to save Teddy for Lily Luna—at least from what she could tell, reading the new boy, it seemed as the two of them, both too nice, too sweet, would be lovely.) "Teddy—do you ever think of the future?" The two of them are standing in the meadow; she looks at him out of the corner of her eye, grey orbs flickering—he is not particularly handsome, not the same pale mysterious looks as Scorpius or the naiveté of Hugo, but he is lovely, nonetheless. _Lust, _she tells herself, _lust and boredom_—it's the only reason why he comes up in her mind, sometimes. Of course; Victoire won't let herself think of anything else.

He takes a breath of the fresh air, his lungs yet to be corrupted—she'll corrupt him soon enough; she corrupts all the boys from innocent little children into bloodthirsty monsters (or so, she likes to think). "It's the future; I'd rather live in the present, really."

"Wouldn't you like to live in the future? The future . . . it's ethereal."

"So is the present; sure, it's a little unsatisfying, but that's the beauty of the present—the future would just be a conglomeration of new ideas and concepts; neither of us belongs there."

_I don't belong here, _Victoire thinks; but she is Victoire Weasley, and she is not meant to be weak, so she does not voice her thoughts and lets them seep into the crevices of the Earth, forgotten like all things are, faded. The river rushes pass, droplets raining from the sky one-by-one, as Victoire and Teddy settle into their usual arrangement, lying down on the grass across from one another, the sun (now, the rain) beating down upon their skin and threadbare garments, heads tilted towards the sky; the sky is something carved out of dreams, but then the thunder rolls in, and it is carved from nightmares once more—there is always a balance between the two.

.

He tries to change her—

She won't change for a man; those things never go well in the stories, and stories are the only things that don't fade (but they will fade too; everything must always fade and fall). "Why are we friends?" Victoire asks, not for the first time, to Lily Luna, who sits on a rug, eyes focused upon a blank piece of parchment, ink splotches on her fingernails.

"Because I'll do anything you say and you know it." There is no hint of defiance, and not for the first time, Victoire thinks that life is too easy—it is too easy to be indifferent and cold, but it's lovely all the same. "Teddy was talking about you. I heard him. He called you lovely, Tori: lovely. Do you think he's the one?"

"The one?" It's almost condescending the way she speaks.

Lily Luna sets down her quill, crumpling up the parchment and throwing it in the corner—emotion, human emotion, any sort of sentiment; it's a chemical defect found on the losing side. "The one that you're going to fall in love with, of course." Lily Luna lives in a world carved from dreams and fairytales where the people who are nice win—this is reality, and the monsters always succeed. Victoire thinks it's better to be the wicked girl than the good girl with faded hopes and broken dreams.

"I don't have to fall in love at all—the more people you love, the weaker you are." _I am not weak, _she repeats.

"What's the point of life, then?"

She stares outside into the harsh fall of rain; the tinkling of alarm bells is heard, and the roar of the water crashing upon the coastline engulfs her—Victoire will not change herself for anybody. It's a decision she's already made.

.

"I love you." The words are faint and wisp through the air like the circles of smoke from a bitter cigarette; her pale grey eyes regard him cooly, no flicker of weakness—Victoire is one-eighth Veela and one-eighth Weasley, which makes her ninety-nine percent heartbreaker, one percent human. "Well, are you going to say anything?" His words are hesitant and shaky, ire ready to roar.

She fingers the cigarette and takes another puff; He presses a kiss to her collarbone and leaves with the changing of the seasons; Victoire tastes like regret and second chances—he is sunshine, sunshine and lions' heart in bursting, rainbow veins; a child. He leaves a farewell peck upon her foundation-covered cheek and recoils back because this is not the Victoire Weasley he had begun to admire.

This is not her.


	2. the jungle giants

**characters:** lily luna, victoire, teddy hugo  
**word count:** 3,517  
**warnings:** implied abuse, character death  
**dedication: **for hpfc's cinema competition's black swan category - _angst_, coppertone wars' twelve days of christmas challenge, level seven, part two

_wasting my younger years_  
part ii. lily luna potter

.

_load up your guns, bring your friends_  
_it's easy to lose and to pretend_  
—smells like teen spirit, nirvana

.

There's a crash and a bang downstairs—

Little Lily Luna Potter stares at the darkness conglomerated outside of her bedroom door; the hallway is cloaked in the darkness, a small flicker of light down at the end of the hallway. She musters the small amount of courage that resides underneath a fragile diaphragm, clutches tightly upon the mahogany banister, and feels her way to the flicker, feet sliding across carpeted surroundings.

Carefully, she opens the door—the green light grows brighter and brighter and an unknown figure leans over the bedsheets; her mother is nowhere to be seen, and a series of licking flames are cast around the bed, as though they are a mouth, about to swallow the bed whole. The urge to scream and run escapes her, and she's almost fascinated by the way the twig stick is able to do so much; the faceless figure mutters incantations underneath his breath and the light grows stronger.

Lily Luna steps into the room, the slight creaking of the un-oiled hinges echoing, and for a heartbreaking long moment, there's silence as the flames begin to diminish and the figure turns its head towards her—she does not scream, only recoils at the sight; his features are waxy and oddly distorted, skin paler than snow; the whites of his eyes are blood-shot and surround a skeletal thin frame, dark scarlet eyes with cat-like slits for pupils. His chalk-white face curls into a snarl, something akin to a skull, and long, thin hands with yellowed nails curve around the wand; a black hooded cloak surrounds him, and he speaks in a sibilant high voice before returning to the incantations.

A shiver runs down Lily Luna's spine but she stays nonetheless and watches—it is something out of a horrible film that her foolish older brothers watch, except this is reality; it's enthralling, really. "Avada Kevadra!" Except the words aren't said like an exclamation, a final sigh of relief—they're something of accuracy, as though a task is finally complete, with the final exhalation and ecstasy that sometimes follows. And then there's the opening of the window, and in a mist of air, the monster disappears into the everlasting darkness—

She screams, a loud and wretched sound, that bounces off the windows—she's watched the movies, she knows what happens; she's seen the newspapers, she knows what happens, but it wasn't supposed to happen to them. Mum had always told her that _Everything is okay now, _but then her father would look her with haunted eyes; they're veterans of war, the victors of the war, but the war is never over—

Later, they tell her that daddy is dead and mother is going to marry somebody new.

.

His name is Joffrey Smith, and he's a beast—

His eyes flicker with something akin to confusion, his steps lethargic and slow, ragged breaths through some sort of inhaler; facial hair frames his cheeks, narrow gaunt ones nonetheless. He speaks slowly, with a certain air of confidence and darkness draped over them, nothing of the safety blanket that her own father had used to drape over her with his own words.

They walk down the aisle—her mother, with flaming locks of auburn hair, with ivory skin and eyes of emerald green whose smile is like a breath of spring, and her new stepfather, with trimmed icy pale locks and murky grey eyes, with tanned skin whose smile is frightening, like one of those Jokers that springs out of the box; "I do,"Mother says, words soft like summer rain.

"I do," Mr. Smith answers—his words are lethargic and heavy, as though it is an action he is being forced to do; a certain unexplainable anger fills through Lily Luna's veins; work is something of mandatory action, marrying her mother is not; but this is for the best—Mother smiles at him as though she can forget Father one day, move on, but life is rarely ever that simple. Lily Luna throws the soft petals across the floor in the aftermath, swirling around with a dress as thin as gossamer's thread, under the brightbright lights, and thinks life will be okay (one day).

.

Sticky fingers dance over the uneven surface of the treat—sugar is inhaled through innocent lungs, and Lily Luna savors the waffle as it is swallowed down her throat; the good things in life are all too soon over. Her mother smiles down at her, traces a hand across the plate licked-clean and leaves the kitchen; Lily Luna settles the plate down upon the bottom of the sink and lets the water wash over her hands—_We won't have a connection to magic when it's not necessary, _her mother had told her. She thinks that it's because magic is the definition of her father—_was the definition of her father_—and her mother, like the rest of the oblivious adults, want to forget and move on.

The memories and photographs will fade with time, and the people will fade too; the world is paper, ready to be erased in a moment's width of time, nobody daring to put an end to it. She struggles with the peel of a banana and reaches towards the mahogany cabinet, malachite eyes flickering to the knife section which lies empty—the dishwasher is empty; Lily Luna remembers the array of knives—red and yellow and pink and blue and silver, most importantly, silver—that had been arranged there the previous day and wonders where they had run off to.

(There's a sickening crash.)

She gulps and turns her head around—_it could be from the television_, she tells herself, _stupid Jamie always watches horror films_—except stupid Jamie is at Hogwarts now and Albus isn't watching the television, and Lily Luna clenches her fists and trods carefully upon the hardwood floor, and sees the droplets of blood which flood out of the locked master bedroom. _I hate him, _she thinks, _but I never wanted for Mr. Smith to die_—she really didn't; nobody deserved to die, really.

Except then Mr. Smith walks out of the room, unscathed, blood droplets scattered across the front of his business casual attire, and Lily Luna is forced to acknowledged the bitter, bitter truth—it is not bittersweet, the truth is never sweet. "I'm sorry, child, but your mother is dead." He doesn't even look the least bit sorry, and she shakes her head quickly.

"She's not dead, this is just another one of your games—" She storms past the door, letting the blood of her mother soak into the soles of her bare feet, skin paler than ivory; her mother lies breathless upon the dark blue bedsheets, eyes closed, and this can't be happening—first, she's lost her father, then her mother, and there's nobody else besides James and Albus, and suddenly, they're not so stupid anymore, because they're all that she has left—and Lily Luna turns towards Mr. Smith who leans across the doorway, his face expressionless as it always is.

"YOU KILLED HER I KNOW YOU DID IT YOU KILLED HER JUST STOP PRETENDING YOU CAN'T PRETEND SHE'S DEAD—"

A sharp slap echoes throughout the crevices of the mansion, and then Lily Luna's thrown into the expanse of a small closet; "You can come out when you're ready to behave," Mr. Smith—_neverfatherneverfatherneverfather_—orders, words cold from the mouth of a drill sergeant. There's the wailing sirens of a police car, and Lily Luna bangs upon the door relentlessly, waiting for the poor construction to finally be of avail and cave down upon her, but it never does. She hears the subdued voices of a police vehicle, and then the closing of a door—her closet door is unlocked, gilded doorknob turned quickly but she does not move, instead falls down upon the hardwood floor and lets the ground cement her sorrows.

.

Jamie comes home for the summer holidays, and she's furious at him—even though he's pretty much all that she has left besides Albus, except Albus just sits there doing nothing, numb as always, and it's okay to be numb, but she needs somebody to help her too, because she's only nine years old and they're all so much older than her, but they're just sitting there, doing nothing, and she doesn't want to be the responsible one, that's not her duty; she won't accept the facts—because he didn't come home quicker. He could left school—he's just a second-year, that's all; it wasn't as though he was taking his O.W.L.'s, and even if he was, his mother died; that should have been enough to send him on the quickest Hogwarts Express train back home.

"Where were you?" She murmurs, words faint and drifting across the green lawn; it looks blood-stained, freckled with splashes of her mother's blood in Lily Luna's own mind. "Where were you?" Her voice rises in pitch, arms crossed, and tears threatening to leak from murky green eyes, and she can't do this now; she needs to be strong, but all she really wants to do is envelop him in a hug, and then Jamie will tell her that everything will be okay, everything will be okay EXCEPT IT WON'T IT REALLY CAN'T BE OKAY EVER AGAIN.

He tilts his head towards the ground, as if it's the most interesting thing in the world, "I was busy, Lily—I had duties to do."

"What's more important than your own family?" He doesn't reply then, simply walking into the house as though he's been here all his life—the door swings open, oiled hinges, no creaking of the turning of a gilded doorknob and examines the remodeled home. It is not quite a home anymore; it is full of extravagant Muggle paintings and butlers and nannies flocking around the children as though they are Gods, but Lily Luna has heard the gossip in the kitchen, of the wretched Potter children, of the wretched stepfather, and knows that nothing is as it seems.

.

Jamie leaves with the changing of the seasons—

The three Potter children and their on-paper stepfather stand by the Hogwarts station—children run past in a flurry of gold and scarlet running through their veins, silver and green scarves, yellow specked robes, wands and blue books (but the Ravenclaws are more than that, the Houses are just so much more than their colors and stereotypes—little Lily Luna Potter already knows this much, and she's only ten). "Promise me, if he does anything to hurt you, you'll call us immediately," Jamie acknoweldges, ignoring the fact that Mr. Smith is standing right behind them, emotionless as he always is these days.

"Yes, of course, because the last time something horrible happened, you were so ready to come back to my assistance." It's the truth—bitter, bitter truth—and Lily Luna sees the hurt in Jamie's eyes but knows that it's better for him to hear the truth now; she's been the one who had dealt with the situation herself for months on end, and the therapists say that _everything will be okay _but they're all just liars who tell her what she wants to hear because Mr. Smith is paying 8 grand a month to them.

"I'm sorry," Jamie murmurs; but he's not sorry, nobody is ever sorry, and she knows that she can't rely on her older brother, not for the first time. "I'm sorry, this time it's different—

It's not, but Lily Luna shakes her head nonetheless, "I'll send word to you weekly; get on the train now, before it leaves." She's waving to Albus Severus and James long after they depart from Hogwarts Express and leaves reluctantly, Mr. Smith holding a tight grip on her wrist. "I want to go," Lily Luna murmurs, her tongue sharper than the sword of Gryffindor. "I want to go right now—"

"Patience, child," Mr. Smith says—he is still not her father, he will never be her father in her mind—. "Your time will come."

.

It's a whole year—

It's a year without Albus and Jamie and Mum and Dad, and on Thanksgiving, she eats alone, staring outside the window and filling her brain with dreams from television shows that are never ever true; on Christmas, there are no gifts underneath the tree except a small check detailing five hundred dollars from Mr. Smith, who comes and goes, as he pleases. It's then when Lily Luna remembers that this is the first year where she's spent it alone, without her real family alongside with her, and it hurts more than it should; it's a whole year—but then it's over.

She goes to Hogwarts as a first-year and it's absolutely better, and even though Lily Luna knows that things won't be getting better anytime soon, she still smiles and pretends that it will—Slytherin is where she is placed, and she accepts it with heavy footsteps and a broken heart. Slytherin is for the traitors, for the relatives of Death Eaters; her parents were Gryffindors. In a way, she had felt as though if she had been a Gryffindor, then there would still be some sort of connection to them. Little Lily Luna meets the rows of conniving and charming faces; a girl named Victoire and a boy named Scorpius and several others run through her mind as somewhat familiar—

When Victoire smiled, she used her eyes—those dark, almost navy blue eyes; it was something of the smile that one might try to imitate, posing in the bathroom mirror like an idiot. The magnetic, delicious, _you can't stop looking at me, can you, _smile supermodels spend years perfecting; well, Victoire Weasley smiled that way without even trying—"Lily Luna, right?" She nods her head, the faint traces of a smile on her blossom pink lips; there's something about Hogwarts that already feels like a social hierarchy, and more than anything, Lily wants a friend—in the stories, the girls that are good and always do what is right fall in love and are highly regarded, but in the real world, the pretty, more often than not, manipulative girls always win and not for the first time, Lily Luna wants to be on the winning side. "Come sit with us."

_._

Half of first year passes by before she's formally accepted into Victoire's social circle, but after that, everything's positively lovely—besides the nightmares at night when she envisions her lovely father on the bedsheets, the licking fire in his dark hair, cleansing the familiar scar that loomed across his forehead; she sees her mother being slaughtered with shining silver knives—really lovely. "You have to break your heart until it opens," Victoire tells her on a Friday afternoon as the two of them are walking down the hallways, Victoire always one step ahead, Lily lagging behind.

Teddy Lupin passes by in the hallway, the orphan Metamorphmagus who became a Gryffindor—Gryffindors have fire running through their veins, scarlet and gold lining their insides; they are strong, they are valiant, they are brave (bravery is foolish); he smiles at her then, and Lily can't help her cheeks flushing an unnatural shade of red. "Forget Teddy," Victoire murmurs to her, words floating through the window, hitting the floor like acid rain. "He's not worth your time, Lily—boys will come and go, but keep your eyes on the prize."

(The next day, she catches Victoire and Teddy snogging beneath the gold banister of Gryffindor, and chortles—this is not a fairytale.)

.

She goes home for the summer holidays—

Albus and Jamie stay at their friend's houses over the break—home is memories of where there parents died; Lily thinks it's a horrible excuse because they weren't even there to see their parents die, she was, she saw both of her parents die, but maybe not knowing is the worst thing of all. Mr. Smith greets her coldly—he is not the same man he used to be, the pupils of his eyes slanted like those of a cats, bloodshot red, and smells of liquor and scotch rather than of business lavender. "Where have you been?" He asks, ire building up in eyes of fire.

"I've been at Hogwarts," she murmurs back, slowly; he throws her across the room then, grabbing onto her wrist, and Lily Luna desperately wishes that her wand hadn't been confiscated by Prefects, because she hates being this weak and helpless; Potters and Slytherins are not weak. They just aren't.

Home is of hardwood floors and cemented plaster engraved into her bones. The bruises aren't hard to hide—

The flappy Hogwarts robes conceal her clothes, and Lily Luna Potter has never been popular enough to be invited to the social functions where girls bare their arms and legs, so she is safe for the meantime; except then, in the midst of second year, there is a surge of pain rising up in her stomach and she loses consciousness.

.

"She's doing this soccer foundation for art—they're raising money for the school," Hugo, a boy who had once been Lily Luna's friend, the only one that she had trusted with the secret of her home situation over the summer holidays, blubbers out, words spewing from his mouth like acid rain. "One of the girls hit her really hard in the rib, so."

Victoire raises an eyebrow, eyes misty, "She doesn't play soccer, Hugo; she's a wizard, Merlin's sake."

(And then Hugo tells them the truth—the whole, awful truth; there are wails and tears but it is not enough to keep her alive.)

"I'm sorry," Victoire murmurs—the stained words hang faintly in the air, the silence unsettling.

He gives her a crooked smile; "Well, it's a little late for that now, isn't it? You were a horrible friend, Victoire—bloody awful." Teddy stares up at the girl with the haunting cold eyes and gleaming smiles who lived life crooked with her wicked, wicked games and wonders why he had ever liked her.

Because even though the situation is horrible, Victoire has never been one to change everything in her life because of a tragic event—it's fake of a person to act as though they're sorry after the event, and she thinks it's quite more simple to never feel sorry at all; it's all fake, everybody's just so fake. "You like me, Teddy—you've had a crush on me since we were nine."

"I liked you," he hastily corrects. "Months ago."

"Days, actually," she remarks, straightening her nails.

"Just shut up, okay?" She almost looks startled but Victoire Weasley never shows a flicker of emotion upon her ice princess features, skin paler than snow. "Stop acting so calm about this—it's your fault she's dying. You could have done something to stop this," his voice breaks, "I could have done something; I was supposed to be her friend—Mum had written a letter, before she died; she told me to take care of the Potter children; that was her last request of me, and I couldn't even do that much."

There's the blaring sirens in the distance; for Hell's sake (for there is no heaven in a world like this and death is the only thing she can count on), they're wizards—this shouldn't be happening. A rush of a medical team—they call a code, rushing past, never fast enough—is sent through the gates of the emergency room and Victoire sits numbly outside of the room and almost feels guilty—

And then there's silence. Minutes pass.

The doctors attach tubes to her body, sending electric impulses to stimulate the brain, to stimulate the body to fight back; _You should have been a Gryffindor, _Victoire thinks, _you can't give up this easily; Slytherins don't give up. They aren't defeated. _Except when they are, because Slytherins are always the villains and the villains always die.

(_Time of death: _10:21 P.M.).


	3. fallen idols

**characters:** lily luna, teddy, hugo, victoire

**word count:** 2,421

**dedication: **for the cinema challenge - category, titanic (_romance_) at hpfc, the supernatural episode title challenge (episode 87, fallen idols) at hpfc, and coppertone wars' twelve days of christmas challenge, level seven, part three

_wasting my younger years_  
part iii. lilyteddy

.

_the great clouds roll over the hills,_  
_bringing darkness from above_  
—pompeii, bastille

.

When she is born, they ring the bells from dawn to dusk—

Long live the princess; icy white curls splay across ivory tinted skin—her siblings own dark features and fiery tendrils, but she is something carved out of dreams; skin paler than ice, a small whining creature, delicate nonetheless. James and Albus and her mother and father crowd around the crib—if not her, her room is carved out of dreams, with long sweeping landscapes in the far distance, daffodils and rose-scented flowers scattered throughout the ambiance.

All she wanted were for things to be nice and pretty, the way they were in songs.

Such a good girl, they call her—good girls aren't Slytherins.  
Such a brave boy, they call him—brave boys aren't Hufflepuffs.

Hufflepuff—it is a house carved from the natures of the earth, lily lilac petals dancing upon sweet tastebuds. Sweet girls and good boys (cowards) sleep under its friendly shadow; it is a crime to be happy; they are smart, but intelligent wits do not run through their oxygenated veins; they are brave but that is not all they are; they are not cunning and competitive, except when they are. They call her sweet little Lily Luna—she should have been a Hufflepuff.

"You are a Hufflepuff yet a Hufflepuff is not who you are," Roxanne tells him, her words always mysterious and secretive.

Little Lily Luna Potter, they call her, the Slytherin girl who should have been anything else. She drowns under waves of thriving students—Slytherins do not wait for others to catch up, Professor Yaxley tells them on First Day, they trample them and step over their bodies, crushing potential rivals and leaving destruction in their wake. Cassidy, a Pureblood (and proud of it too), promises to bring the bitch out of her, except that is not who Lily aspires to be; "You're a Slytherin for a reason," Cassidy tells her. "And everybody else, honest to God, needs to see the truth—"

"What if I don't want to be a Slytherin?" Because as much as she tries to hide it, it doesn't go unnoticed the way that Albus and James treat her differently now—they are both valiant Gryffindors, gold and scarlet coating their rainbow veins, and she is just the problem child, cast aside. Even Mum and Dad, no matter how much they had tried to deny it, Lily could see through their carefully written words that they had wished for better—Ravenclaw full of girls with books and boys with quills, Hufflepuff for cowards and sweet children, would have been better.

Cassidy turns towards her sharply, "You can't say that, Lily—you should be proud to be a Slytherin."

.

Cassidy and Lily walk through the hallways—winter coats Hogwarts like a blanket, settling upon the tops of steeples, and with a gentle breeze, it whispers of destruction (winter is coming, winter is coming). "Who's that?" She asks towards Cassidy who only rolls her eyes.

"Lost cause, Lily—just forget about him; upperclassmen, fourth-year actually, and his heart already belongs to Victoire Weasley—always have, always will." She sounds a little defensive, as if she's too often been on the rejected side of Teddy Lupin; he flashes a smile towards her, and her cheeks flame in a completely irregular manner, and Cassidy gives her a waning smile. "Just saying in advance, be careful."

.

She walks into the Great Hall at six in the morning—

Strings of lights flicker across the ceiling; the Great Hall is something carved from dreams—it's lit with thousands and thousands of candles floating in midair over the four House tables, laid with glittering golden plates and goblets, appearing one by one in the earlier hours of the morn; it's easier to digest her food here earlier, without the nuisance of upperclassmen. Mahogany tables and a crackling fire greet her as she perches upon one of the Slytherin benches, diving into the alluring courses. "You're Lily, right?" She nods her head, slowly, not believing her luck. "I think Victoire's mentioned you a few times—Slytherin, aren't you? I'm Teddy, by the way, Teddy Lupin."

"I know who you are," Lily Luna replies quickly; the lights over her head flicker quickly, blinking.

Winter breaths coldly upon the atmosphere, and the glittering lights above her head look a little too predictable; the red-and-green ambiance almost makes it feel reminiscent of Muggle traditions. "So, where are you off to?"

"Don't you have something better to do then talk to a first-year Slytherin?" It's not as though she minds the attention, but it's bound to blow up in her face; anyway, she's idolized this boy since the beginning of first year, and she'd rather not have her dream version of him crushed; the words trip over one another, and her cheeks flush again.

"What do you mean by that?"

It's like he's fishing for compliments. He probably is. "I mean, you're Teddy Lupin—Hufflepuff, fifth-year, Captain of the Quidditch Team, dating Victoire Weasley; everybody knows who you are."

"I'd rather it not be that way." Teddy inhales a small gulp through his pure lungs, wraps his yellow, scarlet-stained scarf tightly around his gaunt neck and exits, purple eyes flashing with ambivalence, constantly switching; she's left in the Grand Hall, apprehension filling through her veins. _Well, _Lily Luna thinks, _that wasn't unexpected at all. _

.

And then, it unfolds like scenes from a movie screen—

He invites her to the Yule Ball—_he's just trying to make Victoire jealous, _Cassidy warns her, but Lily never listens the first time—and suddenly, she starts going to the Quidditch matches, he teaches her spells, and it all spirals out of control. Their first kiss begins a clandestine relationship—

Secret kisses underneath the gold and scarlet banisters; she sneaks out past curfew, and of course, nobody suspects a nasty little Slytherin to be in some sort of relationship with an innocent Hufflepuff, so it's perfect, really. "I think I love you," she murmurs against his lips in the expanse of a small closet, the scent of jasmine and peppermint lingering in the air.

He pulls back, unsure, and then, "I love you." Teddy doesn't say _I love you, too, _and Lily Luna's grateful for that because their love doesn't have to be equally reciprocated for it to exist in the first place. "I'll break up with Victoire tomorrow, I promise—then, the world will know that you're mine."

.

Victoire Weasley, the one with the extensive network of so-called spies gets suspicious, then—

("Don't do that—I can't be with you. You made me mad, love's not supposed to do that," Victoire had said.

"That's exactly what love's supposed to do," Teddy quickly replies—he never keeps his word, he always gets too scared. _That's the bad thing about Hufflepuffs,_ Lily Luna thinks, malachite eyes brimming with envy, _they're little cowards._)

It's inevitable—the ending; it happens almost as quickly as the beginning, leaving a bitter tinge in her heart. She finds him snogging Victoire Weasley in the Astronomy Tower and knows how stupid she truly is. Because perhaps, one of these days, he could have fallen in love with a first-year in a private relationship, but Victoire was beautiful and dangerous and that's the type of girl boys fall in love with, not the good girls who have dreams and hopes—

Dreams were only meant to be crushed; they should have stayed dreams. Her fingers trace over the mahogany banisters—

She hums a tune to the same old song and sets the owl free; for the girl with the broken halo, and sunlight shining in her auburn hair—the caged bird with extended wings, desperately wishing for the sky with a whisper on her lips, North winds in her veins, and the wolf in her heart. She breaks up with Teddy—she sends word to her family; she moves on.

And it's not because of some sort of futile effort to win her first love back or to feel some sense of closure—it's what she wants to die, and she is not really little Lily Luna, the sweet girl who should have been anything but a Slytherin, anymore. She's one of them.

.

Five years passes, and she's not quite little Lily Luna Potter anymore—

She's made a name for herself—the Slytherin with a sharp tongue; the first-years idolize her, and everybody loves her for what she's not. Lily Luna receives the invitation in the Owl Post over the summer holidays—

It's a wedding invitation, wrapped in pink-and-white lace, scattered with yellow and scarlet traces of glitter, and it's _ohso_predictable—the perfect Golden Couple, childhood sweethearts, finally getting married. (Together, with their parents, Edward Lupin and Victoire Weasley request the pleasure of your company at their wedding celebration—)

Lily stops reading then, because there's a picture of the two of them, lips interlocked on the front, and Teddy's kissing Victoire with so much more passion than he ever kissed her, and any blind idiot could have seen this coming. "Are you going?" Hugo's voice rings on the other end—he's one of the few friends that she's actually bothered to keep contact with after all these years. "You really do have to go; everybody will be suspicious if you decline."

She sets down the phone, putting in on speaker mode—Muggle inventions; everything is predictable these days. "I don't have to do anything that I don't feel comfortable with doing; I'll just say that I have to study for the N.E.W.T. examinations."

"Over the summer holidays?"

"Your mum studied over the holidays, I swear. I just want to get a good grade on these exams—Headmaster keeps on going on about how if we don't get good marks, it's—

"Don't bring my mum into this!" She smiles, despite herself—it's forced, though. Whoever said that moving on was easy clearly wasn't doing it right. "You're skirting around the issue, Lils. It's Teddy, isn't it?" She doesn't respond. "Blimey, it's been five years—you need to move on, for your own good, for the sake of this wedding."

"You're over Victoire?" He's not, he's not, he can't be—she can't be the only weak one out there.

"Of course I am." The words sound forced and defensive, as if his friends have teased him for a while about this; she doesn't comment on it, because Hugo will just start back commenting about Teddy, and the cycle will never end.

"Well, then I guess there's no point in me going—"

"Fine. Just think about it, okay? Roxanne and Cassidy, all your friends that you've completely ignored for the past half-decade are going to be there; it's the Wedding of the Year, Lily. You can't miss it because you're hung up over some boy."

"I'll think about it," she murmurs, and the phone clicks shut.

.

A string of lights is held over the rustic setting—

She takes in the scenery—girls with white lace dresses flock around the scene, boys in their tuxedos; they are all children pretending to be adults, and not for the first time does Lily feel out of place. Everybody else here has long graduated from Hogwarts; she's somewhere between the age of the pretentious-looking flower girl and the bride and groom themselves. "Hey Lily—didn't think you would make it."

She doesn't even bother to look up; Lily would know that melodic voice from anywhere. "Hello," she replies, her voice constricted and tight. "Hugo said that it would be the Wedding of the Year and I couldn't possibly resist the free food." It's weak and fake and Lily curses herself for being so weak. "Oh, and look, there's Hugo over there; nice talking to you." She makes a move to get up, but he grips her wrist tightly.

"I wanted to talk to you. I know that uh, the last time we talked, things were in a bad place, but I was just wandering if we could be friends again, if it's not too much to ask?"

"Friends?" Screw politeness. "You broke my heart, Teddy—I loved you, and then you cheated on me with Victoire, thanks for that, by the way, and then you didn't even bother to contact me for the past five years."

He looks a little surprised, "I'm sorry, Lily. But I'm with Victoire now, and I hope that you understand that." (She doesn't, she doesn't—is she the villain of the story, now?) "It was nice seeing you again." _It wasn't_, she thinks.

.

The wedding between Victoire and Teddy is mediocre at best—

It's only slightly bearable because Hugo's there, and after all this time, she can at least count on her best friend to offer some sort of light into her life—they laugh at the over-extravagant wedding in the back of the hall; Victoire didn't really want to invite her, anyways, and Teddy just did so because he's just that sort of nice person; people stare at them, asking for them to be quiet—they never really learn. "I knew you would come," Hugo says, smiling.

She raises an eyebrow, "Am I really that predictable—wait, don't tell me; I'd rather not know." She gives a grim smile as Victoire and Teddy hold hands, fingers interlocked tightly—Hugo looks at her, knowingly; he squeezes her hand reassuringly, draping his arm across her frame. "After all this time?" It's not even a question, really.

"Always."


	4. pretty face in old eyes

**characters: **molly, teddy, lily, rose

**word count:** 1,506

**dedication: **for the doctor who quote challenge ("You don't want to take over the universe. You wouldn't know what to do with it beyond shout at it."), the disney character challenge competition with the prompt cooper (write about someone conflicted with their own want and their obedience to either a boss/parent/etc.), and the inspiration-by-shakespeare challenge with the prompt of _"If thou hast any sound or use of voice, speak to me. If there be any good thing to be done that may to thee do ease, and grace to me, speak to me."_ (Hamlet).

_wasting my younger years_  
part iv. mollyteddy

.

_so you brought out the best of me,_  
_a part of me i'd never seen._  
—all i want, kodaline

.

Perfection is of the utmost importance—Molly holds onto these words with the tightness that children associate with their teddy bears.

Her father, Percy Weasley, left his family to follow his aspirations of continuing to be a high achiever, ending up at the Ministry of Magic; her mother, Audrey Davis, was a Muggleborn who eventually transcended through the ranks to be Prefect of House Slytherin, then Head Girl—the two of them are perfect, perfect people; Molly's younger sister, Lucy, is without a care in the world, prancing throughout the backyard with thin as gossamer thread garments, swirling underneath the radiance of sunlight.

Molly used to be like that, dreams carved from fairytales; she dreamt of taking over the world, just standing above the ethereal layers of a cosmos, looking down upon her subjects—ruling and taxes and all that nonsense that was so essential would be left to the lower people; except, Molly thinks that she just grew up too quickly. Mother raises an eyebrow and always tells her, "You have a long way to go."

It certainly doesn't feel like it.

.

For the Sorting feast of first year, Molly Weasley is decked out in Gryffindor attire—she's not a coward, Ravenclaw's a bit far-fetched, and Slytherin; well, she won't be one of those. A scarlet bow pins her flaming red tresses off her pale as ivory face, splashed with freckles and almond icy blue eyes; mahogany shoes, obviously.

So, it's quite a bit embarrassing when the Sorting Hat rings a definitive—the Sorting Hat is never unsure, Molly wishes that she could be that way—"SLYTHERIN!" And opposed to the rest of the students before, there isn't a polite series of mandatory claps or large whoops from older siblings, groans from losing bets on the first-years; there's a few peals of laughter, and then an uncomfortable silence as Molly Weasley—she's a Weasley; the Weasleys are known for their hand-me-down clothes and flaming red hair and for being Gryffindors, mostly.

But Molly's never been one for giving up a challenge and Slytherins can be perfect too—but not as perfect as Gryffindors with their scarlet and red bows, bright colors exclaiming their valor.

Her father doesn't write back for a week, and the words are of her mother's illegible scrawl—over the first Holiday break, Lucy runs around like a child still, butterfly wings, plastic and breakable, arched out of her spine. Lucy's the only one who doesn't understand how a Slytherin is such a bad thing after all, but then again, little Lucy Weasley can't even say "Molly Weasley" properly, so "stinking little traitor" isn't a part of her vocabulary—for now.

.

First year goes quickly by, just the way she'd like it to be—

The other Slytherins don't accept the filthy half-blood into their tight-knit social circle, and whoever said that the Houses in Hogwarts were like families were most certainly on drugs.

In second year, she inhales packs of cigarettes.

The words of disappointment from her parents cut into her skin and her friends are a little more distant than usual because none of them are Slytherins—they're Gryffindors and Ravenclaws and there's even a Hufflepuff among her cousins, but anything's better than a bloody, bloody Slytherin. They slice into her layers, and Molly builds up castle walls, except third year means her first boyfriend, Lorcan Lysander.

He's a Gryffindor and he tastes like warmth and comfort and on each date, she finds herself falling in love with him; Lorcan's more of a chance of redemption than anything else. Molly takes him to meet her parents over the Winter Break and Percy looks slightly prouder and Audrey smiles for real, and even Lucy sits up a little straighter.

Except in fourth year, Lorcan, with his icy white hair and dark blue eyes. breaks up with her and moves on with a Grffyindor girl and Molly doesn't date again.

.

Then sixth year—little Lucy isn't so little anymore, but she stands at the front of the Great hall, dreams flickering in her eyes, and a little bit of hope dies in Molly's heart when the Sorting Hat exclaims, "GRYFFINDOR!", like it's just meant to be. Lucy sends her an apologetic grin from the scarlet table but she's not sorry, she's really not; Molly wouldn't be either.

Percy and Audrey—they're too distant to be Mum and Dad—send Care Packages to perfect, little Lucy. Molly's mail is empty, nonexistent really; and them the N.E.W.T.'s which are honestly really, nastily exhausting exams. "Molly, you really have to relax," easy-going Teddy Lupin, with a heart carved of gold and the Gryffindor emblem blazoned on his sleeve. "They're just exams."

"Not just exams—Nastily Exhausting Wizard Tests." She flicks a strand of auburn colored hair from her face, eyes narrowing upon the cursive print. "Quiz me?"

"Where were merpeople found—"

She takes a deep breath, launching into, "The oldest recorded merpeople were known as sirens (Greece) and it is in warmer waters that we find the beautiful mermaids for frequently depicted in Muggle literature and painting. The selkies of Scotland and the Merrows of Ireland are less beautiful, but they share that love of music which is common to all merpeople, would you like me to continue?"

He looks at her, eyes flickering with astonishment. "You should have been in Ravenclaw. Slytherin doesn't suit you."

"Thanks," Molly smiles back, fake and forced, because it's about time somebody besides her realized that.

.

Molly perches upon the footsteps of her dormitory chamber, legs crossed upon the other; a scarlet bracelet is pressed tightly upon her wrist, and the Slytherin upperclassmen who pass by don't pay attention to the colors of Gryffindor, because it's been six years, and they're all a little tired of the acts of defiance. There's a knock on the door—Teddy Lupin steps in, and then there's silence; a smirk plasters itself upon Molly Weasley's face, and then drops, because it's emotion, and she's a bit tired of having emotion. He walks over to her, long strides; "If you have anything useful to say, say it—I don't have a lot of time, Teddy."

"It's Lucy." Molly's icy blue eyes flicker up, a slip of weakness embedded in her orbs; it's her sister, her sister who's in Gryffindor, but who's her sister nonetheless, the only one for the first few years, who didn't care (or know) whether or not she was a Slytherin.

She stands up quickly, "What's she got herself into now?" It's supposed to sound tired, but it's really not.

(So, she has to hex the two other Slytherin seventh-years, which isn't actually that awful, after all, and her sister looks somewhat grateful, but never murmurs a _Thank you, _instead a belligerent, _I could have taken care of myself, _except she couldn't have, and Teddy almost looks a little surprised at her, but Molly feels proud, because this is something a Gryffindor would do.)

.Seventh year flies be, and she finds herself spending more and more time with the Gryffindor boy; Teddy's a chance at redemption, too, and perhaps that's why Molly rushes into a relationship with him, because even though she'd never admit it, she wants her perfect parents to be proud of her. Ten years later and perfection is still of the utmost importance.

But she sort of likes him (not loves, she won't love again) so Molly won't let their relationship be based off redemption. Teddy, he's a nice boy, he's a good person, looks at her like she's beautiful, and Molly lets the corner of her cherry red lips curve into a smile, because Teddy Lupin is the type of student who's usually right, and maybe, he's right about her, too.

(Maybe, maybe, not quite.)


End file.
